


Better From a Distance

by coricomile



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Hockey RPF
Genre: Community: intoabar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6599344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zhenya dislikes New York on principle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better From a Distance

**Author's Note:**

> This is silly and has no real meaning or plot, but I'm just saying the last time I did Ficathon Goes into a Bar, I wrote Patrick Stump/Chuckie Finster. It could have gone to weirder places.

Zhenya dislikes New York on principle. He's been kicked in the balls there too many times to hold any fondness for it, even if the bright lights and crush of people in Times Square reminds him a bit of Moscow. Sid always gets a pinched look when they cross into the city, like he'd much rather eat a lemon whole than be surrounded so constantly. 

Zhenya loves Pittsburgh, but it is a farce to call it a proper city. 

"Meet back here before dinner?" Sid asks, sliding his suit jacket on over his boring white shirt. He looks good because he always looks good, but Zhenya's sole goal before visiting home is getting Sid into something less plain. It's going to take some time, but he has patience. 

"You driving," Zhenya says. New York traffic is as bad as TV makes it out to be, and Sid's road rage is something that pleases Zhenya to no end. The good little Canadian upbringing only goes so far. Sid rolls his eyes. 

"You really shouldn't encourage me," he says. He pats his hair, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and punches Zhenya's shoulder in one swift, if awkward, move. He's terrible at displaying affection, but Zhenya makes up for both of them. He grabs Sid's hips and pulls him in. "You're going to wrinkle my suit."

"Whine, whine, whine," Zhenya says with a grin. Sid's mouth twitches but he holds onto his glare. Sid, for all that he's stubborn about nearly everything, is such a pushover when the right buttons are pushed. "Look good, Sid. Stop complaining."

"I really do have to go," Sid says, even as he sways into the space between Zhenya's thighs. He brushes a kiss over Zhenya's cheek, the sharp scent of his aftershave lingering when he pulls away. "The interview should be done by seven."

"Say good things about me," Zhenya says. He tugs Sid in again to give him a proper kiss before swatting him on the ass and shoving him towards the door. "Go. Sidney Crosby can't be late."

"Fuck you," Sid says, stumbling a little in his new dress shoes. They'll be hopelessly scuffed by the end of the next season, but right now they're shiny with polish and hardly scratched at all. "Stay out of trouble."

"Me? Trouble?" Zhenya shouts, but Sid's already out the door. 

Zhenya hates interview trips. He doesn't understand why they can't just call. He's not any better at English over the phone, but it would save time and jetlag. They're stuck in New York for three days before they can go back to their summers, and while Zhenya will always happily stay in a hotel with Sid on someone else's dime, he'd rather be at home on his own couch. 

He doesn't have to do anything today, which is a small mercy. Tomorrow he'll have to sit in his suit and answer the same questions he's been answering for a decade and smile for the cameras with Sid. He knows that fans care about them, remembers eagerly eating up articles about his own favorite players as a kid, but he thinks he respects them even more now that he knows what's on the other side of it. 

Zhenya pulls on his denim jacket and tames his hair into something manageable. It's gotten long, curling in the back and over his forehead, but Sid likes it this way and Zhenya likes that Sid's gotten brave enough to pull it during sex. It's likely going to stay this way for awhile. 

The bar he finds is tucked into a side street in a shady looking neighborhood. Zhenya's been in worse at home, lived in worse for awhile, but he still keeps an eye out. He doesn't keep up with news in New York, but he remembers hearing about the attacks in Manhattan a few years ago. Another reason New York is inferior to every other place in America. 

He orders a beer from the man behind the counter and settles into a booth. It's just after four in the afternoon, still way too early for anything heavier, but he'd rather be here than stuck in the hotel room. The TV is turned to ESPN and Zhenya feels safe in the knowledge that he probably won't be on it. Hockey never gets coverage. 

For an hour, he catches up on football scores and drinks fruity local IPAs. The bar stays relatively empty except for him and a few guys in tracksuits that come in a pack. He thinks he hears Russian, which is always pleasant no matter where he is. 

He's debating on if he's going to go talk to them when a girl falls through the roof in a spray of plaster. Somehow Zhenya manages to catch her before she crashes through the table, his arms immediately complaining about the weight. She rolls out of his grasp and fires at the Russians in the corner with- with a bow. 

The bartender ducks under the counter as chaos explodes around them. Zhenya stands frozen in place, too confused to move, arms still outstretched. The men are shouting at her, a mix of Russian and English insults, even as they go for cover. 

The girl with the bow keeps firing on them, talking too fast for Zhenya to catch the words. She's dressed in what has to be an uncomfortable purple costume, a mask over the bridge of her nose to hide her eyes. An arrow catches one of the Russians in the shoulder and they scatter, fleeing the bar with more hurled insults. 

The girl pulls out her phone and dials quickly, tapping her bow against her thigh. Behind the counter, the bartender has gone back to wiping down glasses like nothing even happened. Zhenya's still standing at his table, dumbfounded. 

"They're heading your way," the girl says, her voice high and young. "Don't screw it up this time, ok?" She hangs up and the phone goes… somewhere. Zhenya doesn't want to know where or how. The costume doesn't look like it has a lot of pocket space. "Oh, hey, thanks for the catch."

"You're…. Welcome?" Zhenya looks up at the hole in the ceiling. The bartender doesn't seem concerned about it. 

"You're Russian," the girl says, definitely a statement over a question. Zhenya nods, doing his best not to look at the bow still in her hand. Does she have a vendetta against his countrymen? Sid will be so pissed if Zhenya gets shot. She looks him up and down, face scrunched. 

"I'm just here for drink," Zhenya says, holding his hands up peaceably. She's half his size in both height and weight, but she'd been utterly fearless against four men. Zhenya's not going to press his luck. 

She opens her mouth but cuts off when her phone chimes. She does something complicated with her hands and then the phone is tucked against her shoulder and the bow is armed and pointed at Zhenya's face. Zhenya doesn't think she'll miss. 

"There's another guy here, doesn't look like he's with them, but he's Russian," the girl says. Her eyes haven't left Zhenya's. They're cold and unafraid, dark behind the fabric. "Stop by. I've got a date in like an hour and I've got mask hair."

"I'm not with others," Zhenya says when she's tucked her phone back into her suit. She gives raises her eyebrows and Zhenya shrugs. Okay, so not the best argument. He can see that. "Visiting for press. Can call agent if want." He reaches for his own phone, but the girl pulls the string back farther. Zhenya's heart pounds hard in his chest. 

He wonders if being shot with an arrow will be more or less painful than tearing his knee was. Hopefully she'll get him somewhere that's not vital to his career. 

A man in a ratty t-shirt pokes his head in through the door, his dirty blonde hair standing on end. There's a pink band-aid across his red, swollen nose and a bow in his hand. The partner. Zhenya looks between them skeptically, hands still held high. 

"Oh, hey, you sports or something," the man says. Zhenya prickles, the urge to defend hockey on the tip of his tongue, but the dark line of both bows keep his mouth shut. "He's good, Kate. Have fun with America."

Kate lets the arrow drop and Zhenya sighs out a breath of relief. He doesn't want to know what that last part means, but it doesn't involve him and that's all that matters. 

"Buy him a drink or something," Kate says as she puts her bow away. "He caught me when the roof broke."

"And you call me a mess," the guy at the door says. He's rangy but built almost as thick as Sid on top. He scratches the back of his head with his bow and a flash of purple shows behind his ear. 

"You are a mess," Kate says. She waves at Zhenya like she hadn't just held him up with a deadly weapon and wanders out of the bar. The bartender, who is either used to the chaos or just callous enough not to care, has moved onto cutting limes. 

"Sorry about that," the man says. He waves at the bartender, who pours another beer from the tap without saying anything. "They tried to burn down my building today. Again. It's getting really old really quick."

"I'm go now," Zhenya says. He edges towards the door, ignoring the confused look the man gives him. If he leaves the neighborhood faster than he'd entered it, it's no one's business but his own.

Sid's in the lobby of the hotel when Zhenya gets there, tie missing but suit still as immaculate as when he'd left. The relief Zhenya feels at seeing him is overwhelming. Sid smiles broadly at him as he stands. 

"Hey," he says. If they were home, Zhenya would be getting greetings kisses. Sid says he hates the press stuff too, but he's always ready to lock up in the bedroom after. It's not the weirdest thing about him. "Ready for dinner?"

"Stay in tonight," Zhenya says, hustling him to the elevator. Sid looks bewildered but doesn't fight. Zhenya can still smell the plaster on his clothes even though he'd tried wiping it away in the cab. "Long day. I'm tell you, but you not believe."

They order room service, which tastes as bland as it always does, but Zhenya revels in the relative safety of the room and Sid. His phone rings after they've pushed the cart back into the hall and Zhenya answers without checking the caller ID. One day, he'll learn. He really will. 

"You met the Hawkeyes," Sasha says instead of a greeting. "It was all over the news. They showed very flattering footage of you fleeing the scene. Did you at least get autographs?" Zhenya groans and hangs up. 

He hates New York.


End file.
